


Tales from the Wasteland

by DireDigression



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23573572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DireDigression/pseuds/DireDigression
Summary: ***UPDATE 2020-09-18: I've rearranged, and this is no longer an active work. It remains here for archival purposes. Please see these chapters and any new ones in theBecoming Sole series.My place to store one-shots about my sole survivor, Sole, for things like events or just when the muse hits. Definitely likely to include spoilers for her story, Becoming Sole, so be wary if you're concerned by that. Or to include non-canon events. Also highly non-chronological, it's gonna jump around her timeline...wildly. Otherwise, enjoy!
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 12
Kudos: 4





	1. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entry for a Fallout Discord server event, prompt: "Sanctuary"  
> Sole finds Sanctuary: in a home, in people, in music.

It's a chill night, November per the Pip-Boy in Sole's room, and she, Preston, and Sturges are sharing a fire in Sanctuary. They've just finished off the leg of a massive radstag that Preston had taken down that morning. From the moment that he had reappeared through the fog in Sturges' sights, whistling a sharp _Loot for haul!_ signal and punching his fist in the air, the day had turned into a celebration. Preston ensured that every effort was put into collecting every usable part. Most of the meat went to the newly built smokehouse, and the hide was scraped and cleaned for tanning. The leg had been thrown over the fire to roast and been split among them along with a loaf of razorgrain bread and a pile of beers, plus one precious bottle of wine. Now, they're stuffed and happy, slumped in their chairs as the tinny sounds of Diamond City Radio float from the old speakers.

Sole watches the two men as they chatter. Preston describes the hunt for the stag, which had taken him west of Concord and south of what was apparently a small farm. He gets into the story, animated, hand motions twisting as he describes barely avoiding a stray mongrel, slipping between a pile of radioactive waste and a bloodbug he swore was large enough to carry a brahmin, finally creeping over a hill to spy the stag far below. Sturges joins in to add all the necessary embellishments, the other four monstrous hounds backing up the mongrel, the green mist around the waste, the extreme distance between Preston and the stag that pushed the scope of his trusty musket to the absolute limit. How Preston had lined up the bead on the stag's eye and was about to make the shot when--oh no!--the wind shifted! The stag caught his scent, wheeled, bolted in the opposite direction, farther out of range by the second--and Preston made the shot anyway! What a hero! Such a legend! The best radstag hunter in the entire extreme-northwestern corner of the Commonwealth!

Sole rolls her eyes, despite her grin. Fish tales never change, she supposes. She drops her gaze to the fire instead. It crackles cheerfully in the rough metal pit they've hammered together. The occasional _pop_ or shift of a log that sends up a reverse-rainfall of sparks makes her jump a little, every time. Beyond the little circle of light they've carved out, in the dark of the forest past the sleeping houses of Sanctuary, insect chatter fills the emptiness. She'd never paid too much attention to the local fauna before the bombs, but it seems like a lot of insect noise for this late in the year. And the chirps and clicks don't feel familiar to what she remembers. But, again, she never paid attention before, barely heard it anyway over the hum of cars and muffled chatter of families and televisions. The sound _is_ familiar now, the white noise backdrop to all the past nights like this one, weeks of them now, all the other nights they drowned their aches and their repressed anxieties in Gwinnetts until crashing to sleep before starting another day of rebuilding.

Her attention is snapped back to the two men by...Sturges suddenly snapping his hands toward Preston, shimmying his body, and then--singing along with the radio. His voice is a rough tenor, mostly in the right key, and the delight in it is infectious. " _There's a two-legged animal runnin' about!"_

Preston grins and sways along with the song. Sturges jumps to his feet and swings to direct the next verse at Sole, hips swinging.

_If it acts just like a crossed patch,_

_Has a face with whiskers that scratch,_

_If it's stubborn as can be, mean and ornery,_

_It's a man!_

Sturges plops back down in his chair for a bit, still humming along, then takes a quick swig and jumps back up. He drags Preston up with him, who joins in stomping round the fire in a tipsy dance opposite Sturges. His smile becomes a bit toothy as he takes over the next verse in an equally joyful, if rather less musical, clear baritone.

_If it acts just like it's the boss,_

_When you know that you are, of course,_

_If it gets a little rough, thinks it's very tough,_

_It's a man!_

By this point the two are beginning to break down in snorted giggles, but they hold it together long enough to shout the conclusion, complete with swinging arms grabbing shoulders to punctuate the lyrics: " _GRAB IT! HOLD IT! HANG ONTO IT! For it's a maaaaaaaaaan!_ " They collapse back into their chairs, wheezing and reaching for drinks.

Sole claps, giggling. "Encore! Encore!"

Preston huffs a laugh and waves her off. "Please, no, I ain't singin' again tonight." But he seems to remember something and turns to Sturges. "Hey, you should pull out that geeta! I bet Sole hasn't heard one yet!"

"Oh yeah, I'll run grab it! She probably needs a tunin' anyway."

Preston and Sole sit with the sounds of the radio, the fire, and the insects for several moments until Sturges returns. He's carrying an oddly shaped case on a strap, which he opens to pull out an object. Sole can't help herself, pushing halfway out of her chair for a closer look at what seems to be a strange guitar. It's boxy and inelegant in design, but he cradles it lovingly as he presses an ear close and plucks the strings. Its worn, polished wood gleams slightly in the firelight. Preston leans down to click the radio off. The sudden silence amplifies the background noises, insect chirps and firewood pops becoming almost deafening over the faint notes coming from the geeta's strings.

The plucked notes of tuning slip together into strum patterns. A chipper, jazzy tune echoes from the little box. Sole doesn't recognize it. She stares at Sturges' fingers a while longer, deft on the strings, his sinewed wrists bending with familiarity to navigate the instrument. Then she settles back in her chair, relaxing to take in the scene. Her gaze settles, as usual, on the flickering dance of the firelight. The life taken on by the flames. She traces the spiraling flight of sparks in the air, follows the curling tendrils of smoke in their column up into the sky.

The music shifts to a statelier tempo, almost tribal sounding as Sturges adds in echoing percussive _thumps_ to the box. Sole gazes up into the expanse of sky. It was always one of her favorite things about moving out of the city. No more light pollution, no more towering forest of buildings. She'd never taken advantage of the view as much as she should have, just a quick glance up in awe between the car and the front door. But that's at least one change that the bombs have made unquestionably for the better. The sky glimmers with an unfathomable abundance of stars, the Milky Way striking across the center of the expanse. A silvery crescent moon rises over the distant trees.

Sturges begins singing again. His husky voice and heavy southern accent fit oddly with the solemnity of the song, but when she reorients herself to again take in the campfire, the mechanic and his instrument, Preston relaxed and gazing into the fire, it suddenly seems an ideal fit.

A new song starts. Wait. She refocuses on Sturges. She's not familiar with the words he sings, but the tune niggles at her brain.

_Stop near, oh stranger passin',_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Stop near, oh stranger passin',_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_I looked across the glowin', and what did I see?_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_A stranger in a strange land, comin' after me,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Stranger, if your road takes you where I belong,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones?_

_Please tell my girl she's got to carry on,_

_Won't you come and bury my bones._

It's not identical, but it's close enough. "That's...I know that melody. That's 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.'"

Sturges looks up, his fingers abruptly silencing the strings from the tune he'd moved on to. "You know that one? Sing it in yer vault?"

"Uh...sure. We had different lyrics, but it's definitely the same tune. The lyrics we used were about...uh..." She takes a breath and rubs her face. "A religion from before the bombs. I suppose." She'd never been particularly religious herself, but she hadn't thought about the likelihood that all of the beliefs and traditions surrounding her now were totally new. That she was alone in an entirely new culture whose history she couldn't fathom. That anyone who could share the cultural touchstones she knew was...

Sturges grins. "That's real cool. I wonder how that happened? Think a vaultie left and brought it with 'em, or maybe they're both from a pre-war one?" She goes mute and shakes her head. "Have any other vault songs? You should sing them for us!" Her eyes widen and she shakes it more vigorously. "Heh, alright. Preston, requests?"

Preston seems to shake himself out of a daze. "Oh, hmm. How about Minnie?"

"Another sad one, eh? Alright, but you know you gotta help me out here." He begins plucking out a mournful tune. Then he softly cries out some nonsense syllables, which Preston echoes. The song is sorrowful and wild and utterly unlike anything she's heard before and... _hold on a minute._ He's started into the verse, and this time the sound of the song is totally different, but--

"You're not telling me _"Minnie the Moocher"_ is a _ballad_ now _,_ are you?!" She can't help interrupting. She's suddenly struggling to hold back laughter despite the hauntingly sad melody.

Preston and Sturges look at each other in confusion. "Yeah?" says Preston. "It's a traditional ballad." Their faces shift to offended as she gives up the attempt and breaks into full laughter.

"Well if your vault didn't think so, you're the weird one out here, not us," sniffs Sturges. "Here I was trying to play something nice for you, but if I'm not appreciated..."

"You're appreciated, certainly!" she gasps, managing to strangle the laughter back to giggles. "Please, don't mind me. Play more, please, I want to hear you. You're the best geeta player I've ever known!" And she hasn't felt this... _at peace_...since, she supposes, the War.

Sturges sniffs and only looks slightly less offended, but he returns to his instrument. Sole drops back into her chair to listen. The men's voices blend with the songs of the insects and the fire and are carried away with the smoke towards the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the traditional ballad is a Doctor Who reference ;)  
> I really enjoyed coming up with new lyrics. Makes it a lot easier when you already have the music it's gotta fit!  
> And a little bit of headcanon came along with it too: so many wastelanders die far from anyone they know. Just dying with someone who would and can bury them must be a good death.  
> I spent all day "researching" 50s-ish music, but also spirituals, because I thought those would be really appropriate songs to get carried down along with just chart toppers.  
> And then, of course, the wastelanders would have come up with plenty of their own new music. Because that's what humans do, in spite of their circumstances, or perhaps because of them. They create. But that's where my creative abilities ended.


	2. Hancock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sole has just killed the most dangerous killer in the Commonwealth. No one is going to stand between her and her son. Next stop in the search for answers: Goodneighbor.

Sole is already dangerous by the time she meets Hancock.

She steps through the junk gate of the town, from the soft pink neon glow of the Goodneighbor sign into the harsh glare of the streetlights. Nick follows, a shadow with glowing golden eyes.

A man immediately waltzes up to her. A burly, rough-shaven man with beer on his breath and clothes that probably haven’t seen a wash in months. He pushes far too close into her space, leering down at her, but she doesn’t step back. She makes no move but to let a hand rest casually on a hip.

After a display of eyeing her up and down, he notices the shadow behind her. His bravado slips slightly and he takes a half-step back, just to the edge of polite distance. The drunken mask falls back into place. “Well well, it’s the detective. Tracking down another wayward husband to his mistress?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Why, someone stand you up?”

The mask slips again and is replaced with confusion, then a glare. “Tryin’ that, what d’ya call it, evasive language on me?” He steps forward again.

She shifts her weight, drawing the drunk’s attention.

“And who are you, huh? The new dick-in-training?”

“Not your concern.” She’s already bored of this, looking past the drunk to appraise the shops behind him. They appear to be manned by…an assaultron and a ghoul?

“Oh, it’s not, huh? Well, with that attitude, you’re gonna be in the market for a little insurance.”

Now she turns her attention to him. “Unless it’s ‘keep-dumb-assholes-away-from-me’ insurance, I’m not interested.”

The drunken bravado is back in full force, and he misses the current of ice in her voice. “Now, don’t be like that. I think you’re going to like what I have on offer. You hand over everything you got in them pockets, or ‘accidents’ start happenin’ to ya. Big, bloody ‘accidents’.”

His speech is barely finished when the hand on her hip moves. A brilliant .44 presses against his forehead, and abruptly the back of his head is gone. The assaultron in the background makes a motion that could be taken as a grimace at the red now splattering its storefront.

A new figure sidles into view, tutting at the mess. She steps forward, .44 held assertively at her thigh, daring the town to try her again. She doesn’t have the patience for this. But Nick quickly steps up behind her and puts a hand over her gun arm. “He’s safe, doll.”

“Easy there, I don’t bite. Not in public, anyway.” The figure chuckles softly, hands up in a display of goodwill. “I like you already! Walk into a new place, make a show of dominance. Nice.”

Without relaxing, she takes in the figure. Another ghoul, this one dressed in an absurd costume—red frock, frilly white shirt, tricorn hat. What looks like an old-world American flag tied at his narrow hips. But somehow, the costume doesn’t make _him_ absurd.

“Well look at this, Nicky Valentine, finally back in my town.” The practiced casual look melts into a genuine grin as his black eyes meets the synth’s gold.

“Sole, this is Hancock, the mayor of Goodneighbor. It’s good to see you in one piece, John.”

“And same to you, Nicky. No missing screws?”

“None of the important ones. You lost any more toes?”

“Not lately! A drunk almost took a bit of my finger, though.” He pouts theatrically as he turns his attention back to the newcomer.

She’s dangerous. Hancock could see the ice in her eyes, even before she dropped Finn. But what doesn’t he know about dangerous? About wearing danger like a second skin, about slipping into it like the coat he wears like a suit of armor?

“Sole, eh? A pleasure to meet you.” He sketches a quick bow. “Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everyone’s welcome…so long as you remember who’s in charge.”

She nods curtly. He gets the impression that she still considers herself in charge. It’s possible she may not be wrong.

“We’re here for the Memory Den. Which way?”

“Just follow me, sister.” He meets Nick’s eyes and is not encouraged by the glowing gold. Suppressing a rare feeling of unease, he turns and leads the two into the town.


	3. Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Fallout February prompt: Ruin
> 
> The thrilling, problematic conclusion of Sole as the Silver Shroud. Also, lots of little insights into pre-War Sole.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Minor character death. Multiple deaths, but no gore.

Black coat whipping at her ankles, Sole steps through the elevator doors.

"Shroud! I want to talk to you!" shouts a rough voice from inside.

The scene that meets her is bleak. A warehouse-like basement spreads before her, raiders posted around the edges. At the far side, a staircase leads up to what might be an old loading dock, where another raider flanks a large ghoul in combat armor. The ghoul holds a pistol to the head of the smaller ghoul kneeling in front of him: Kent.

"Hold, assholes," the large ghoul snarls at the surrounding raiders. "Anyone turns heel, and I'm coming for you and your family. And you, Shroud, you step any closer and we get to see what's inside Kent's head." He glares down at Sole, and at Hancock prowling in her wake. "Well look at that. The mayor himself graces me with his presence. Babysitting your pet superhero, Hancock? Looks like it's my lucky day, I get both of you."

"Oh no, pal," spits Hancock. "We want _you_."

Sinjin grins savagely. He lives up to expectations, at least. Sole is sufficiently impressed. But the intimidating scene doesn't faze her righteous fury.

"You shield yourself behind an innocent. You are craven, Sinjin. And you shall fall before me." She channels the Silver Shroud of her childhood, terrifying, invincible, omnipotent. With the heavily-modded Silver Submachine Gun in her hands, she nearly feels overcome by the euphoric wave of power.

Sinjin doesn't appear affected.

"Talk's cheap, asshole. Some of these losers think you're some sort of legend. Like you walked straight out of a comic book. But you and I know, you're human. And you're weak. You came here, and for what? Your little sidekick?"

Kent whimpers. Sole draws herself tall, lifting her chin. "I have cut a path through all your thugs. Who can truly say I'm not the Shroud?"

Sinjin just laughs, cold. "You think you're the first that's tried that?"

She feels Hancock shifting nervously behind her. This isn't going at all like she'd anticipated. The wave of power turns icy in her veins. But she can't show weakness here. All eyes are on her. The Shroud never failed, not one time, not against the worst of the worst. And so what if others tried before? _She_ is the strongest fighter in the Commonwealth. _She_ killed Kellogg. _She_ , as far as her enemies should be concerned, _is_ the Silver Shroud. She can't lose to this pompous raider. She shifts the gun towards her shoulder.

"Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you," says Sinjin. "If you try anything, I shoot the sidekick. If you succeed in anything, my associates here shoot the sidekick." The bodyguard steps forward, shouldering her rifle to drive the point home.

As long as Sinjin holds that pistol to Kent's head, he holds all the power. Sole drops the submachine gun back to her waist, helpless.

"Look at what the Shroud has become," the raider sneers. "Played like a chump, just because you care about a weakling like this. Here's a lesson for ya, free of charge. The thing about cops and robbers? The robbers always win. You see, the good guy has too many things he cares about. Family. Friends. Little school kids. That makes him weak. The bad guy? He's the strong one. He doesn't give a damn about anyone or anything. There's nothing he wouldn't do to win."

Maybe he's right. She is weak. She's just a housewife. She's supposed to be making dinner, not making a fool of herself play-acting some stupid superhero. She's supposed to be back home, in a nice dress, taking care of her husband and son, like the other women she grew up with. She was never good at that. Even when she finally married Nate, was finally able to call his son her own, finally no longer the pitiable lonely girl approaching spinsterhood, even then she could never do it right. Took Nate for granted, begging him to let her keep her job and her softball. Resenting him because he offered her a chance to have the dream and it still wasn't good enough for her.

But then again, she's _not_ supposed to be home making dinner, is she? Because they aren't there. Because Nate is dead and she's lost his son to this hellscape. What she's supposed to be, really, is dead.

"So what's going to happen is this," Sinjin growls. "I was considering letting your little friend here go if you turned yourself over, but I've decided that's too good for you. So first I'm going to kill Kent. Then we're going to shoot the hell out of you and the mayor there. Nothing's going to be left but paste." His voice crescendos to a hoarse shout as rage seems to catch his body like wildfire. "Then I'm going to Goodneighbor and I'm gonna kill every last worthless bastard there. And I'll burn the whole thing down! _No one_ screws with Sinjin!"

_And no matter what I do, he kills Kent anyway._

She's not supposed to be alive, but she is. She wasn't supposed to play softball, but that gave her the trusty swatter. She wasn't supposed to want a job, or to not want children, or to play-act the Silver Shroud. But she's the one alive now, not them, and she's the most dangerous force in the Commonwealth, and she's the one wielding a submachine gun.

This unhinged thug doesn't get to strong-arm her into meekly accepting death. She realizes how to take her power back.

She hasn't taken any jet, but time still seems to slow as she shoulders the Silver Submachine Gun. She braces herself, takes the radiation-scarred face in her sights, and squeezes the trigger. A sharp staccato-crack echoes through the room.

Kent crumples to the ground at Sinjin's feet.

"I don't negotiate with mad men," she says to the suddenly silent room.

Time continues its jet-like stretch as the witnesses try to come to terms with what just happened. Hancock seems frozen in shock behind her. Sinjin has begun to babble softly. Sole drives a small knot of unease out of her mind.

"Now that I have your attention, what's going to happen is _this_. Everyone that points a gun at me dies. Every. Last. One."

Then the spell is broken as the raiders realize they need to panic. "Jesus, she's crazier than Sinjin," one gasps, backing away. Another drops her gun, throwing her hands into the air and pleading, "Just d-don't kill me, please!"

Sinjin attempts to regain his composure. "You're...You're going down...Kill her, you assholes!"

But the raiders clear a path as she strides towards him. Up the stairs. Stepping over Kent's prone shape. Sinjin begins shooting wildly, but the bullets that do land make little impact through the costume's armor.

Sole presses the muzzle of her gun against Sinjin's forehead. His black eyes are blown wide. He stares at her, mouth agape.

"Face my rightful vengeance."

\-----

That night, Sole sits at the Third Rail bar, still garbed in the Shroud's attire. The atmosphere in the old subway station is fragile and hushed. Magnolia is absent from her usual stage. Even Charlie seems to regard her with something like distaste or worse. The euphoria has receded, leaving behind a feeling of the direction-less floating of driftwood.

_I did what I had to do. Sinjin killed so many people. He was going to burn Goodneighbor to the ground! I saved their lives._

She stares down into the whiskey in her glass, as though seeking validation in the depths. Hancock had raged at her as they left the old hospital, but she hadn't responded and he'd eventually run out of steam, stalking silently after her on their return. Then outside the State House he'd told her in no uncertain terms to get out of his sight.

 _Probably not forever._ Well, if he can't stomach what it takes to keep his town safe, then he's lucky she's here to do the dirty work for him.

The whiskey is nonresponsive. She downs it and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, this is NOT CANON* for Becoming Sole, just an idea I had to get out.
> 
> *(not necessarily anyway  
> I'm still deciding  
> don't hurt me)


End file.
